


just paranoia

by EmoTragedy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Character Death, Death, Eyes, Heavy Angst, Horror, Hurt No Comfort, Insanity, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control, Monsters, No Smut, Other, Paranoia, Psychological Horror, Self-Harm, Suicide, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25710931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmoTragedy/pseuds/EmoTragedy
Summary: Sometimes what you can't see is still out there to hurt you.
Kudos: 12





	just paranoia

**Author's Note:**

> heyo so i'm not 100% certain if suicide and self-harm apply, but england does basically cause the majority of the violence to himself (against his will ig but uhh) so i tagged it just so be safe lmao
> 
> ALSO TW: IF YOU SUFFER FROM EMETOPHOBIA, IT'S PROBABLY BETTER TO STEER CLEAR?? idk but there's a scene where he starts coughing up blood and i don't wanna trigger someone out there

Arthur was alone again, and whenever he was alone, he felt their gazes burning through his skin. He was never sure who they were, just that they were there, and watching; forever and undying.

It made him want to tear his hair from his scalp, made him want to rip out his eyelashes and scream until his throat bled. For some, the feeling of being watched was comparable to torture. For Arthur, being watched was torture.

Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.

His mind was shattered and infectious, turned black with intrusive thoughts. He'd never wanted to scratch the skin off of his bones more. There were nights where he'd relax considerably, where he'd adjust to the scalding sensation of their piercing eyes, and others where he'd claw at the walls, at his flesh, at the air, just to feel the slightest bit safer.

The fear that brewed within him was not that they were watching– not entirely. He could not see them, but the knowledge that they could see him, very clearly, made his heart pound like it planned to crack his ribs open and burst forth from his chest. Sometimes, Arthur wanted that to happen, just so it could end.

He wanted to see them, he realised one day as he idly traced the rim of his teacup with his index finger. Perhaps that'd grant him something in relation to closure. When he went home that evening, he felt incomplete; like a part of his routine was off. He only realised what was wrong when he approached the front door of his house.

The eyes did not stare. There was nothing at all – no white-hot glare burning into his spine, none of the fine hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end; it was like they had completely vanished. Despite the peace and relief he was granted at the revelation, there was something still very, drastically wrong. A blanket of dread was draped over his mind and he no longer felt the gentle whispers of tranquility. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The hallway that greeted him was exactly as he'd left it.

His lips parted for a sigh of relief and he ran a hand through his golden blond hair. The living room door creaked to his left, and he stilled immediately.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he lifted his head and he carefully looked at the gap between the once closed door and the wall.

He felt his heart slow to a stop before racing again. Arthur did not scream, nor did he cry; he merely stared at the thing peering at him through his living room door. A part of him was unsure if he could even say it was peering at him– the thing had thin veils of flesh covering its pulsing eyes, but they certainly were not eyelids. Its skin was leathery in appearance and was adorned by throbbing veins. The mouth was open, yet covered with the same delicate-looking skin that the eyes were. Arthur could not see much of its body, but he could already tell it was far larger than he was himself. The dull ache in his neck could testify to that as he strained to look up at it.

A meek, warbled noise left its wrinkled throat and Arthur found himself struggling to breathe.

It felt like his feet had been nailed to the ground and Arthur could only stand with wide eyes as it nudged the door further open with one short, blunt appendage on the right side of its disgusting body. His throat burned and his tongue felt far too big for his mouth.

Resorting to the only option he had left, Arthur screwed his eyes tightly shut and tensed.

'It's not real,' he told himself in his head. 'Remember what they said: it's not real, Arthur. It never was real.'

He mentally counted to ten and back before tentatively opening his eyes. The door was wide open still, but there was no longer anything there. A sigh passed his lips and he rested his hand against the wall to stabilise himself. A sudden, heart-stopping realisation made him stiffen as he stilled, and, before he could stop it, he whimpered plaintively. 

Why would the door still be open if it had truly never existed?

He choked out a sob as the faint whispers of almost incoherent sound brushed against the back of his neck. The noise grew progressively louder, a high-pitched, warbling cry. 

Arthur finally opened his mouth and screamed.

The shrieks of whatever loomed behind him continued to increase in volume until Arthur felt the warm sensation of blood trickling down either side of his head, down to his neck. His hearing was swiftly growing limited, he realised, but he never ceased his screaming.

His eyes began to roll back into his head. His senses were dimmed significantly, somehow, yet he could still hear the wailing in his head. Echoing; never-ending; aching. It was like a melody on repeat, lulling him into insanity, into letting himself fall victim to death itself. An icky warmth crept up his throat, coating his tongue in a thick, coppery liquid. It spilled out of his still screaming mouth, pouring down his chin and dyeing his innocent white shirt crimson red. His once vivid forest green eyes had rolled back far enough that only the sclera was visible.

His sense of hearing was completely gone by this point, yet he still screamed and screamed and screamed. His hands flew up to grasp at his own hair, tugging as hard as he could, tearing at his scalp with desperate fingers. He tore clumps of hair from his head, removing small scraps of skin as he went along. His head was a bloody mess and, when the urges deep inside him had been sated, he dragged his hands down his face. He raked his nails down his face, tearing the delicate flesh with how deeply he dug in. Lines of beading red adorned his cheeks and his knees finally gave out, leaving him a crumpled, bleeding mess on the floor of his own home.

Somehow, he still wasn't done. He wasn't dead yet. He couldn't stop until he was.

Sitting up, shrieking all the while, he reared his head back and bashed it against the wall as hard as he could. An almost white-hot liquid poured down his face, and he continued with his hands braced against the wall. His blood-caked nails dug into the expensive blue wallpaper as he pounded his head against the wall for a final time, body going limp and falling down once more.

The creature inside his home had left a long time ago. The creature inside his head had left a long time ago.

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for any spelling errors or grammar mistakes, but here's my first proper published fic lmao. 
> 
> btw uh if you know me from my days of the emo text fic thing, i'm never going to continue it. i'm also pretty ashamed of some of the jokes i made. i used some words i shouldn't have and shipping real people is disgusting. i'd never do that now and i also don't stan brendon or pete. honestly i don't really listen to any of those bands anymore since i've moved on, but yeah. anyways enjoy this shit fanfic bc i like hetalia and danganronpa now bitch


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